


5289

by SuleikasGhosts13



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Death Threats, Father-Son Relationship, Halloween, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Nonsexual Nudity, patient abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2020-12-24 12:02:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21099158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuleikasGhosts13/pseuds/SuleikasGhosts13
Summary: Death comes for all of us. But Malcolm isn't ready to face that fact.Or Malcolm suffers another night terror; one he isn't quite sure how to confront his father about its contents.A Halloween-themed fic.





	1. The Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Martin definitely seems the type to read Ray Bradsbury stories to his son. The quotes are from "The Halloween Tree," which comes highly recommended.
> 
> I'll add tags as I go, but I think I covered everything. 
> 
> Hopefully I'll finish this fic by All Hallows' Eve.

_ It was a cold, rainy autumn evening. Pedestrians hurried past the Whitly residence, clutching their umbrellas tight, huddled, afraid that their shields might be stolen by the wind._

_Inside__ was full of warmth and hospitality. The ancient fireplace was lit. The mud room contained a crystal bowl of candy, awaiting any layover trick-or-treaters. An aroma of cinnamon wafted from a lone scented candle._

_ Five-year-old Malcolm Whitly was curled up against his father's side on the couch, gingerly sipping his piping hot cocoa. The tiny tyke sniffled, having previously thrown a nasty tantrum. They had run out of marshmallows, but Martin had ingeniously thought to add a spoonful of Fluff to the concoction. Malcolm simply loved how his dad could wiggle out of any sticky situation. _

_ Martin read aloud from a thin paperback, his voice soft and welcoming as melted butter over popcorn. "'It was a small town by a small river and a small lake in a small northern part of a Midwest state. There wasn't so much wilderness around you couldn't see the town. But on the other hand there wasn't so much town you couldn't see and feel and touch and smell the wilderness....'"_

_ Jessica Whitly sat across from the pair, cradling a hot mug of microwaved apple cider and grinning from ear to ear. She wore a long, flowy black maternity dress and an elaborate witch hat adorn her brown tresses. Martin shared her happiness, contemplating how his wife looked incredibly sexy in all her motherly glory._

_ "'And the town was full of...'"_

_ "'**Boys!**'" Recited giddy little Malcolm, cozy in his orange feetie pajamas, the tears forgotten._

_ "That's right, Mal," his dad encouraged him. "'And it was the afternoon of Halloween....'"_

_ As they continued, Malcolm's eyes began to droop. He resisted, yet the effort proved futile. The comforts that surround him were too tempting._

_ When he awoke, the parlor was deserted. No Mom, no Dad, not even the pitter-patter sound of the rain hitting the windowsill. Everything lay in darkness; the fire had long been extinguished. _

_ Anxiety ate at him. Malcolm slipped off the edge of the couch, wrapping the decorative blanket around his shoulders like a cloak._

_ "Dad?" He called. No answer. "Dad, where are you?..."_

_ "O- over here, son," came the whisper._

_ "Dad, I- I'm scared," Malcolm whimpered, entering the hall. The glass candy bowl was smashed across the floor. He was careful to avoid the pieces._

_ "I need you, Malcolm," the voice echoed, shakey. "Quick, come quick..."_

_ The terrified child turned a corner, and suddenly he was in the basement again. That forbidden basement._

_ His mother warned him time and time again not to play down there. But now- it sounded like his father was hurt. He gulped, stepping forward. _

_ There was a battered chest at the end of the corridor. Strange noises seeped from its inside. Panting, groaning, moaning...._

_ "Dad? Dad, what's in here?"_

_ Ten-year-old Malcolm glanced over his shoulder and placed his cocoa mug on the gritty floor. He undid the lock and went to lift its lid-_

_ "**Malcolm!**"_

_ In his haste to spin around, Malcolm slipped. He fell on his back with a violent _thud.

_The ground was filthy and... bloody. Oh no, he was in the slaughterhouse once more. Surrounded by dissected faces and hogtied hostages..._

_ Thirty-year-old Malcolm flashed his torchlight above. "This is Bright," he gasped into his earpiece, "I found the hostages- they're alive- oh- hey, Claude-"_

_ Serial killer Claude Springer stood over him, aiming his shotgun. Panicking, Malcolm grasped at straws, trying to talk him down._

_ It- it was working._

_ "This was where you were made."_

_ "I was **made**?" Claude asked incredulously._

_ "No one's born broken. Someone breaks us."_

_ "How?" He lowered his weapon. _

_ "Put the gun down; I can tell you."_

_ Claude complied, and Malcolm sighed in relief. "That's good-"_

**BAM.**

_ Blood splattered across his face; the blast forced Malcolm to turn away. When he swung around, it was not Claude's body that landed before him. It was not Claude's blood that pooled from his lips. It was not Claude's lifeless eyes that stared into him._

_ It was Martin's. _

"MMMMNNNNUMMN," Malcolm screamed into his mouthguard, sitting straight up.


	2. Empathy and Consequence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've added more tags because I slightly changed the ending.
> 
> Nothing wicked explicit, but I'm covering my bases.

Doctor Martin Whitly received at least some form of hate mail 3 times a week. These letters ranged from the usual "_Kill yourself_," "_Your [sic] a monster,_" or "_Repent! Confess your sins to God Almighty;_" to more entertaining pleas. _"There's more bodies, aren't there? Make amends to the victims and their families by giving them closure."_

Martin simply chucked those in the bin.

His psychiatrist would then want to _discuss_ their contents and how that made him _feel._ The analytical bastard.

So when Dr. Harvey Van Tassel waltzed right in his cell bright and early one morning, he assumed 'twas the case.

"Good morn-"

"Seen any UFOs lately?" Martin interrupted, chuckling. Ever since he'd surmised that his caretaker was a distant relative of the spiritualist/author, he couldn't stop teasing this middle-aged man.

Dr. Van Tassel rolled his eyes. "Are you getting out of bed today?"

Martin merely stretched in his cot. "Can't a man sleep in on his day off?," he yawned, scratching his beard.

"You shouldn't rely so heavily on the presence of patients," Van Tassel sighed, irritable. "There'll come a day when they won't show."

"You've been saying that for the past eight years."

The cardiothoracic surgeon's arrangement had been thanks to his previous psychiatrist, a Dr. Brom Jansen, now promoted hospital director. It has been a point of contention between the professionals, with Van Tassel repeatedly threatening suspension.

His shrink ignored him, settling into the stiff metal chair just beyond the painted red line. He'd have to order a more accommodating one soon. It made his back ache.

"I see you've removed your son Malcolm from the visitations list," he began, clicking a ballpoint pen.

_Damn,_ thought Martin, _he's going straight for the kill._

"It was as per request from his mother," he waved his right hand absentmindedly. "Apparently I'm toxic to his mental health."

"And she blames you for his deterioration?"

"Regrettably," Martin shrugged.

"Do you agree with her?" Van Tassel's calculating stare bore into him.

Martin mulled over his words carefully. "My boy suffers from _parvo nocturnes_; a really dreadful case to boot. According to Jessica, they've only gotten worse. Just the other day, he-"

Martin stopped himself. He laid his face in his palm, the images playing behind his eyelids. Malcolm had thrown himself out his window and survived. His ex had dropped that nasty little bomb while she was trying to convince the serial killer to revoke visiting privileges; and in his shock, he conceded. 

"Something happened, didn't it?" Van Tassel nodded, scribing frantically in his notebook. 

**_"Yeah,"_** Martin replied gruffly, short with him.

"Perhaps this was the right call, then. He'll be in a safer frame of mind-"

"He'd be safer with **_me_**," Martin growled through gritted teeth. When he agreed to those terms, Martin mistepped. Malcom required a firmer hand guiding him, yet here his own father relinquished control at the first sign of doubt-

"You're reconsidering, Martin." It wasn't a question.

"Let's just say that if he decides to drop by, let's not hinder my boy."

**💀💀💀**

"A-and suddenly, the dream turns into my run-in at the slaughterhouse-"

"Slaughterhouse?" Dr. Gabrielle Le Deux jotted down notes in her pad of paper.

"It was my last case with the FBI, the one that got me canned," Malcolm explained quickly, lifting his face from his palms. "I don't know if you saw on the news about Claude Springer?"

"The serial murderer who stole his victims' faces? I did. I also saw that in the process of his arrest, he'd been shot to death-"

"Claude was surrendering," Malcolm clenched his fists. "He had lowered his weapon. I was in the middle of talking him down when- when- **_that trigger-happy gloryhound_** shot him through the back."

Le Deux noticed how the shaking picked up. "Who killed him, Malcolm?"

"Some no-name local sheriff. He was hooting and hollering afterwards. I reprimanded him- he got in my face- I punched him."

He paused, trembling. "The other officers took his side, and I was terminated."

"Do you believe your treatment to be unfair?" She inquired cautiously.

Malcolm sighed, depressed. "At first? Oh definitely. My supervisors even brought up my father and insinuated I was a narcissist. I knew the FBI didn't have complete confidence in me, but I was bringing in results and passed every psyche test they threw. Assaulting the sheriff seemed like an opportunity they were waiting for."

"And now?"

"In retrospect, I was becoming too cocky and more than a little self-righteous. I thought- **_I believed _**\- I knew all the answers. I isolated myself from my peers partly because I felt superior to them." He sounded exasperated. "Ever since I came home, I really have been eating that humble pie."

When his therapist didn't immediately respond, he continued, tapping his knuckles on his knees. "I- I think I'm better off anyhow. I- I have **_friends_** here. My only regret is that the officer wasn't let go as well. Nobody that callous should be near a gun."

"I quite agree," Le Deux smiled sadly, "and while I'm relieved that you are already addressing these issues on your own-"

"You're worried that the incident still bothers me, if it's showing up in my nightmares," he nodded.

"Malcolm, you watched a man die. **_Murdered. _**That would haunt anyone," she stressed. "You are not the first law enforcement agent to be troubled by this, nor will you be the last. It's honestly quite noble to want to bring in suspects through non-violent means, and I'd hardly call that self-righteous."

Gabrielle Le Deux clearly had her opinions. Malcolm didn't mind; it was nice to have someone so firmly on his side.

"So," she began again, getting back on track, "you've been dreaming about the slaughterhouse. What happened then?"

**_Oh God, _**Malcolm pondered. He wasn't entirely sure how to breach the subject, so he stalled for a moment by sipping water.

"As it- well, ah- happened in reality, I witnessed Claude's death," he glanced at all the mass-produced paintings on the walls. He couldn't look her in the eye as he said, "When he dropped, he turned into my dad. Dead. Deceased. Gone from this world utterly."

"You're scared for your father's safety." Completely rhetorical.

"Couldn't tell you why, though. He's in the safest place imaginable for someone like him." The criminal consultant groaned.

"Malcolm, it's less than his current situation. More like-"

"-I'm seeing his face on the people I arrest. Gracious, that's so perturbed," he chuckled disparagingly. 

The therapist reached out, patting his hand sympathetically. "You're showing empathy. Compassion. These are important qualities to have. But Malcolm, you can never tell Dr. Whitly about these dreams."

"What?"

"Please, I've been seeing you for nearly twenty years. I'm well aware you're considering traveling to Claremont Hospital after our session, despite my advice against it."

Malcom exhaled. Sheepishly, he answered, "Mom convinced Martin to eject me from his visitation list, though I haven't exactly been adhering to it. I just- after last night, I'd feel a lot better to check in. I won't stay long."

"Again, whatever you do, you cannot discuss your night terrors with your father," Le Deux insisted.

"He'll take advantage, I know. He's a sociopath afterall."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't resist adding another chapter.
> 
> Or adding as many Easter Eggs as possible.
> 
> Next time, prepare yourself for so much Halloween goodies you'll rot your teeth out!


	3. Mischief Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween!!
> 
> Belated as it is...
> 
> The chapter was becoming two long, so I broke it into two.
> 
> Heads up, the violence in this story occurs in this chapter, so if you want to skip ahead-
> 
> Last chapter will be up on Monday!

_Cold_... The showers at Claremont Psychiatric Hospital were always cold. Freezing. Antarctic temperatures.

Martin enjoyed being clean, but the whole process was... tedious. Mr. David and another guard would shackle him, haul him from his cell to the washroom in the basement, and then strip him. A different guard would supervise while he bathed and dressed. He would again be shackled for his return. 

Once a week, rinse and repeat.

He always tried to make it a quick affair, but tended to- err- _disassociate_ once the water pounded his head.

_"Dad?"_ Malcolm's young voice echoed inside his brain. The memory of his son at thirteen appeared before him. _"Dad? I need to ask you something."_

_ "Of course, Mal." He answered, fiddling with his restraints. The kid seemed quite agitated. "Anything on your mind?"_

_ Malcolm gulped, then pressed on with abandon. "We've been discussing the origins of serial killers for years- Bundy, Gacy, Holmes- but whenever we come to the subject of what **made you**, you constantly deflect-"_

_ "That's not a conversation I'm ready to have with anyone, especially not with my teenage son," Martin interjected hotly._

_ The adolescent balked. "Yeah, but-"_

_ "End of story!"_

The former surgeon sighed, lathering his body with soap. He wondered if it was then that his child began to pull away. As much as he tried to control it, his temper sometimes got the better of him.

"Hurry up in there, Whitly!"

Dragged to the present by the guard's shouts, Martin replied haughtily, "Patience's a virtue, remember."

He looked over his shoulder. The guard, a Mr. Andrews, held his arm folded against his chest, glaring at his prisoner. Once, they were privileged the privacy of a shower curtain, until another patient committed suicide in one of the stalls.

Mr. Andrews annoyed Martin. Here he was, surrounded by some of the most intriguing psyches in the state, yet they were only a paycheck to this working class hero.

Sometimes Martin would overhear him complaining to his colleagues about bills and sports and Parent-Teacher-conferences.

The feeling was mutual. He'd also hear on occasion the Gen X Blonde complain about him: that he was arrogant and consistantly wasting everybody's time.

Dr. Whitly shampooed his greasy, curly hair. His nails scratching his scalp soothed him, and his thoughts wandered off again...

The local news had been abuzz with the prospect of trick-or-treaters later that night. That and the recent fatal stabbing in one of the parks...

As his daughter Ainsley had covered the gruesome details, Martin was reminded how she'd dressed as an evil fairy that last Halloween before his arrest; fake blood seeping from her mouth.

_A sadist, huh?_ He had plenty of experiences with their lot, excluding himself.

"_Martin..."_ A new voice rang in his head. This time, one as giddy as it was bloodthirsty. Martin imagined hiding behind a wooden bannister, and could almost see the shotgun. _"Where are you, little Martin?"_

"Earth to Martin Whitly!" Yelled Andrews furiously. "Hurry your ass up! There's six more patients who need to shower before my shift ends!"

Martin rolled his eyes and turned around. He scrubbed the wet washcloth over his scrotum and pendulous cock, then smirked as a roguish idea came to him.

"Like what you see?" He sneered, winking.

Andrews turned beet red, then rushed him. Martin's vision went dark before he even hit the ground.


	4. Season of the Witch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied. Not our final chapter.
> 
> Enjoy Monday's episode! It looks like it's going to be a bumpy ride!

Malcolm hadn't gone to Claremont after all. He and Gabrielle started discussing Isaac's case and, in his ardor, the dream was completely swept from his mind.

Booking Isaac Parker had been hard. The kid sobbed through the entire process. Fingerprints, mugshot; he shook like a leaf. But the worst of it was reuniting with his mother, Crystal. One glance her way and he wailed.

The profiler recused himself, unable to watch anymore. Gil found him in the men's restroom, puking what little of lunch he had ingested.

"Are you alright, kid?"

"Just triggered," responded Malcolm, wiping the spittle from his mouth with his sleeve. "Give it a minute, it'll stop."

Gil clasped a firm hand on his shoulder. "I'll have JT bring you home when you're ready. You've done enough tonight."

He simply nodded, though he continued to tremble uncontrollably.

The drive home was unbearably quiet. Malcolm could read JT's tells; the veteran was just as upset as he and dared not utter a word.

Gazing out the car window, he watched as the last of the trick-or-treaters slowly traversed homeward. Little Meridas with flaming red hair and little toy bows, Spidermans accompanied by their rogue galleries, and classic monsters trampled across the damp lawns and sidewalks...

Malcolm used to love Halloween. Every year, his parents would take him and Ainsley guising around the neighborhood, returning for a hearty meal and cozy bedtime stories. Martin would change his voice for each character and act out the scenes, much to his son's enjoyment.

After his father's arrest, his mother couldn't take them out anymore. Too many cameras, too many interviews and court dates. Jessica feared she'd be recognized and result in the homeowners slamming the door in her children's faces.

So Gil and Jackie took over. He'd spend the morning showing his father his new costume, then head over to the police officer's apartment with his sister to carve pumpkins.

As he and Ainsley grew too old for trick-or-treating, they still spent the night over the Arroyo Residence; watching corny B-movies from the 50s and cracking jokes. Jackie would make the best overly-buttery popcorn and stove-heated apple cider. Gil would find the next great disaster of a flick.

When Malcolm went away to Harvard University, the tradition changed. It was a five hour drive back to NYC, you see, completely unfeasible for a single evening.

The alternative? He joined a couple of his classmates whom he'd befriended in their exploits in Witch City. Salem boasted not only a wealth of museums, shops, and historical tours; but a slew of pubs in which they could bar-hop. The students would arrive at their dorms early the next morning, exceedingly hungover.

Malcolm stopped celebrating once he moved down to Washington D.C., however. He immersed himself in his work, dropping nearly all contact to his friends and family. Reality was filled with more horror than fantasy could ever replicate.

"This the right place, Bright?"

Malcolm snapped out of his reverie. "Yeah. Thanks, JT," he said, crawling out from the passenger seat.

"No problem," JT said torpidly.

The consultant pulled out his keys as his partner drove off. As he unlocked the door to his flat, he felt a tug on the bottom of his coat.

"Who-?"

He spun around to find a lone trick-or-treater. A skinny kid in a burlap mask and pajamas, holding up a pillowcase with sticky candy-coated fingers. He couldn't have been much older than Malcolm when he father was taken away and- the profiler felt a lump grow in his throat- younger than Isaac.

"Ah- happy- Happy Halloween," Malcolm responded weakly. He kneeled down to the small boy's eye level and checked his suit pockets. "Sorry, I-I'm not sure if I have any candy- I didn't prepare- ah, here's some-"

He pulled out a lollipop he'd scoffed from Gabrielle's office. The masquerader snatched it from his hand and ran off, snickering. Malcolm simply smiled and waved.

His apartment was drenched in darkness. The only sounds emitting were the soft chirps of his tired parakeet.

"Trick or Treat, Sunshine." He whispered.

Honestly, after the events of the evening, Malcolm had no intention of sleeping. Who knows what sort of nefarious nightmare awaited him?

Rather, Malcolm strolled into his living room, pulled a blanket over his shoulders, and popped on the television. It was late, close to midnight, and yet the only channel not showing a slasher film was hosting a Lon Chaney Sr. marathon.

He had once overheard his mother talk about the famed Man of a Thousand Faces: her father, deceased long before Malcolm could meet him, would watched these films with her. These were her precious memories; ones untainted by her life as a Whitly. Although perhaps due to her grief, Malcolm never did get to see any of them.

**_The Phantom of the Opera, The Unholy Three, The Unknown, _**and _**The Ace of Hearts. **_

The answer became readily apparent. In each full-length feature, Chaney played a woefully forlorn criminal who sacrifices everything in an act of redemption.

It painted a sickening contrast to his own father, a real-life criminal. If it came down to it, Dr. Malcolm Whitly would always prioritize himself; Malcolm would bet his entire family's fortune on it.

_Does Dad even love us?_ The question haunted him for the past twenty years. Sure, Dr. Whitly said he did, but this was coming a well-documented liar.

On the flip side, Malcolm's experience in the FBI showed him things were way more complicated. Martin certainly _interpreted _his emotions towards his family as love, however twisted they may be. And he treated his relationships better than other serial killers his son encountered, though that wasn't saying much.

"Hell...." Malcolm groaned, pitching the bridge of his nose. Obsessing over this question made his nausea return. As much as he resisted, he knew he needed some serious shuteye.

💀💀💀

_ "They're going to release him? They can't be serious!"_

_ "The courts have gone mad! He's mad! He'll kill again!"_

_ "We have to stop him! At all costs!"_

_ Malcolm was squished in the throngs of a mob. Angry, frightened civilians with arms full of rocks, food, and baseball bats. They surrounded a gentleman in a fine blue suit and a gray beard, ready to devour him at any moment. _

_ **Dad.** He had a manic glare in his eyes, his fist held high over his head, threatening the crowd to come closer._

_ "IT'S A GRENADE! A GRENADE!"_

_ "He's going to die if you don't do something," a voice whispered behind him._

_ Malcolm spun around. Standing next to him was a elderly man, skeletal-thin and gaunt in his beak-like face. He seemed awfully familiar...._

_ "What?"_

_ "Your father. He's going to die right here, right now, if you don't act, boy! What would you give to see him live another day?!"_

_ "I-I-" Malcolm stammered, panicked._

_ "Do you want your father dead?! Is that why you're hesitating?!"_

_ "No! No!" He shouted. Although it wasn't in his adult voice. He was again in the body of his ten-year-old self, pjs and bathrobe and all. He pleaded, "What can I do?!"_

_ "Bargain with me. Give me one year of your life to save his."_

_ Malcolm grew pale. What sort of solution was this?!_

_ "I mean it, boy, one year, one precious year from the far-burned candle-end of your life. With one year you can ransom the dead doctor."_

_ "I-I-" Glancing everywhere around him for another option, Malcolm wrangled his hands. Was Martin worth it enough to sacrifice himself for? Did he love his father that much?_

_ "Too late." The old man sighed, disappointed._

_ Martin, laughing hysterically, opened his grasp to reveal... nothing. The threat had been only a rouse._

_ The mob overwhelmed the murderer and began to tear him apart. _

💀💀💀

"Nooooooooooo!" Shrieked Malcolm, ripping his restraints out from the wall for the second time. He slipped on his blanket and crashed onto the cold, wooden floor.

Sunshine was extremely anxious. She was screeching up a storm.

Malcolm Bright laid there for what seemed like hours. Shame and regret washed over him like waves in the ocean.

He wouldn't budge until he heard the buzzing of his cellphone. Perhaps it was Gil with an update on the case?

"Hello, is this Malcolm Bright?" A nervous operator inquired. 

"Yes, this is him," groaned the consultant.

"I'm sorry to bother you so early in the morning, but it says in his care plan that you're his emergency contact." The stranger quickly explained, "I'm Dr. Brom Jansen, Hospital Director of Claremont Psychiatric. Your father has been attacked."


	5. Lose Your Soul

The streets were littered with smashed pumpkins and discarded candy wrappers. Here and there a half-eaten pizza slice scavenged by a sewer rat. The paper-mache trappings skittering in the wind...

On the bus, Malcolm stared out the window as a mother scolded her son in the seats behind him.

"I **_told_** you not to eat so much candy in one night. Now look at you, Matthews, you've given yourself a nasty tummy ache."

_ "Worth it," _Mathews muttered under his breath. Malcolm smirked. "Are you sure I can't just stay home today?"

"'Unless you're throwing, you're going.' You did this to yourself, young man."

"But school's already started," he continued to argue.

"And you can explain to your teachers why you're an hour late."

Malcolm turned his attention back to the moving scenery. His own mother used to be strict like that, but after Martin's arrest, she lost all heart to deny her children. It ended being Jackie's scoldings that got the Whitly children back on track.

Finally at his stop, the well-dressed profiler leapt from the bus.

Inside the less secure areas of the hospital, staff and volunteers were already taking down the October-themed decor and replacing them with Thanksgiving turkeys. Posters with corny quotes embossed over Rockwell-esque stock photos hung everywhere, even the scratched walls of the elevators' interior.

As a teenager, Malcolm'd been slightly jealous of the relative normalcy allowed to these patients and their visitors, in comparison to the cage his father resided in. To watch TV in the lounge, eat meals in the dining hall, or take little strolls in the small garden outside. Then again, these patients weren't convicted of murdering twenty-three individuals.

A buzz here and an unlocking there, and Malcolm found himself in the familiar halls of the restricted wards. Anxiety churned his gut as an important-looking physician approached.

"Are you a Mr. Bright?" He nodded, his tremors starting up. "I'm Dr. Jansen, we spoke on the phone. I'm terribly sorry to be meeting you under such circumstances-"

Malcolm shook his extended hand. "Please, can you tell me what happened?"

Now it was Dr. Jansen's turn to tremble. "During his scheduled bathing, there was a- uh- an **_altercation _**between your father and one of the orderlies. From what we gathered, Dr. Whitly made a sexual comment towards the employee in question. He, in turn, took serious offense and began to beat your father unconscious. The other orderlies heard screaming, charged in, and pulled the man off him. We immediately terminated this worker and the hospital plans to file criminal charges."

The profiler groaned vociferously, running his hands through his hair. "What's his name and how long has he been with your care facility?"

Dr. Jansen blinked, hesitant to provide the answer. "He's... Anthony Andrews. He'd enrolled in our staff for several months without incident...until now."

"And how long has this Andrews guy'd been engaging with my father?" Malcolm pressed on.

"Three weeks."

"Tell me then, Dr. Jansen, when staff members are assigned new patients, they are required to read and sign off on documents summarizing the care plan of said patient? Am I right?"

"Of course," the director quickly assured him, "that's elementary procedure here at Claremont."

"That _dumbass_," he breathed. "Doctor, do double check that his initials are on that treatment regimen. It's well documented that Dr. Whitly is prone to provocation, and any healthcare professional worth their salt should know well enough not to indulge in it. Either he didn't bother to read, an instance of negligence; or he choose to ignore it; a classic case of abuse. When the hospital does file, make sure to argue for my father's right to anonymity under HIPAA; otherwise no prosecutor will take on this litigation."

Malcolm huffed, feeling as though he had just sprinted the entire distance from his apartment. But it had to be done; he had to ensure his parent's safety. If this orderly got away with a slap on his wrist, his actions could encourage others.

"So," Malcolm gasped, "how is he?"

"Fine, but sedated." The hospital director flinched under his glare, hastily explaining. "When your father came to, he had a ferocious episode in our infirmary. He bit the poor nurse on the arm and snapped a finger on one of our other orderlies. We restrained him first with straps, and when no evidence of a concussion appeared later in the day, we restrained him chemically."

_That was extremely reckless. _Malcolm folded his arms, "If this happened yesterday morning, why wasn't I informed sooner?"

The director continued to buckle under the stress, his words meshing into one another in an attempt to save himself. "There's-there's- ah- no excuse for this delay, but- uh- we-were-short-staffed-yesterday, it was a holiday, you know- most of the administrators had taken it off- to spend time with family-"

"And it took you this long to figure out how to break the news to his family," Malcolm sighed, frustrated.

Dr. Jansen blushed a deep purple, imcrediably ashamed.

Malcolm grabbed his shaking hand in his other, as if they would cease its quivering. He whispered, "My Dad always hated losing control."

"I haven't seen him get this violent in years," Jansen admitted, "not since the incident after you stopped visiting."

"Well, he was assaulted," the killer's son shrugged. He'd rather not know the full details of this _incident_.

"His current psychiatrist advised that we reduced his interactions with the outside world," Jansen ventured cautiously, "in case he behaved in such a manner again."

"I can't really say anything about his medical consultations," another shrug, "but he's been aiding me in my casework."

"You're part of law enforcement, I'm not mistaken?"

"Correct."

The way this director was glancing at him every couple of seconds, like he was sizing him up, made Malcolm uncomfortable. Honestly, it felt like being _profiled_.

"Did my father suffer any injuries?"

"Nothing beyond a fat lip and some heavy bruising along the side of his head. It was a knockout punch."

"Can I see him?"

Dr. Jansen bobbed his head and beckoned Malcolm to follow. They ventured down one long hallway, and then another, before finally standing outside the steel door of the Surgeon's secured cell. Malcolm peered through the frosted windows.

Dr. Martin Whitly was asleep, laying on his right side, softly snoring. There was dark swelling around his mouth and the split lip had scabbed over. His left ear was an ugly shade of purple and green.

With a nod, Mr. David let them in.

Reluctantly, Malcolm stepped toward the bold red line on the floor and called out, "Martin? **_Martin?_**" No response. 

_He's drugged out of his damn mind, _he thought bitterly. Even as every cell in his body screamed _Don't_, the profiler stepped over the painted line and approached the bed. 

"Ah-" Dr. Jansen began, but Malcolm silenced his protest with a glare.

It was odd to say the least, seeing his father like this. Martin's face was relaxed, devoid of any charm or scheme. The fat lip wobbled, like he was giving a lecture in his dreams.

Malcolm sat down on the edge of the bed. It'd been years since he was this close. Even during Martin's early imprisonment, his son never allowed him to touch him. An intimidating aura permeated the cellroom air.

Although at this moment, the Surgeon was completely vulnerable. With twitching fingers, Malcolm laid his hand on top of his father's curly salt-and-peppered hair. _Soft._

Martin groaned and Malcolm instantly retracted his hand. Bleary eyes peaked open. ".....alcolm?"

"Hey," he replied quietly. "How are you feeling?"

Another groan. "Sea-sick... What... hecking... they give me?"

_Not chloroform,_ a spiteful response came to mind, but Malcolm resisted. _Don't get into it with him._

"You're pretty beat up. Can you tell me what happened?"

"Dumb guard," Martin moaned, blinking rapidly, trying to rid his head of the fog. "'E was... rushing me. Told 'im off... He didn't like that."

The killer laid his head in his right palm. "I'm going to... be a mess for... Ainsley."

Malcolm rolled his eyes. "The bruises will fade before your interview."

"Your mom won't be happy... about that," Martin chuckled, but stopped when he turned green. "Do I have a concussion?"

"Doc says no, though I wouldn't blame you for asking for a second opinion. It could also be the sedative interacting with one of your other medications. You were belligerent when you woke up."

"I didn't recognize where I was at first," he clarified. "There were bright lights and hands.... I must've freaked."

"You bit the nurse-"

"He'll live."

"-and broke the hand of the orderly with them."

"Who'll also live."

"You're lucky they didn't lock you in solitary confinement," Malcolm said irritably.

"I'd have to do much worse than that." The former surgeon tried to sit up, thought better of it, then laid back into his pillow.

"Dr. Whitly," Malcolm paused, swallowed, and then proceeded, "I went home the other day and found a bunch of photos-"

"Oh! Excellent!" Martin chimed in. "If you ever find the one of you in your little pumpkin outfit, I'd love a copy. Halloween was last night and it got me thinking how cute you were at that-"

Malcom tuned out the rest of his spiel. Suddenly, the inquiry about their camping trip was pushed to the side as the memory of his dream flooded him.

_ Halloween... We were sitting by the fireplace..._

"Malcolm?"

He snapped back to the present. "Sor- ah- I was just reminiscing," Malcolm added quickly. He wasn't going to apologize if he could help it. "Halloween, huh? I remember you used to read to us after trick-or-treating."

His father's grin widened. "If I recall, those stories were the highlight of the evening. We'd get you two ready for bed and then cuddle on the sofa, reading 'til you both fell asleep."

Martin readjusted himself on the bed. "You had great taste as a kid," he carried on. "Poe and Hawthorne; and then you'd bring me something from Alvin Schwartz or Robert D. San Souci. You always did enjoy a good scare."

Malcolm paled. The sights of his parent's bleeding face and the emaciated old man hovering flashed before him. How frightened he felt.

"Malcolm? What's on your mind?"

"Huh?"

"Tell me what's bothering you," Martin leaned closer.

Gabrielle's warning rang in his ears. _Change the subject. _"I-I remember the house being so festive. Candles, paper ghosts, a big glass bowl of candy by the door..."

"Until I dropped it," the killer muttered sheepishly.

"Huh?"

"Your Grandma Philippa gave us this expensive antique at our wedding; a heavy bowl made of fine crystal. I thought nothing of using it as a candy bowl. I mean, it was truly gaudy, but that's my mother-in-law for you." He chortled. Even before his arrest, they never got along.

"You smashed it?" Malcolm recalled the shattered pieces from his nightmare.

"I dropped it," Martin corrected. "We were cleaning up, I went to shut the porchlight off, and some bratty kid egged our front door. It made me jump, and I lost my grip. Grandma Philippa was certainly _displeased_."

"You weren't hurt, were you?" Malcolm asked, concern spreading over his face despite himself.

His Dad just laughed, "Only a few cuts and scrapes, it wasn't serious. It roused you, though. My dear boy, you came racing into the hall as soon as you heard the crash, looking like someone'd been murdered."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for sticking with us!  
Next time is the Epilogue!


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